


Interference

by Moogs



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moogs/pseuds/Moogs
Summary: you are my favorite distraction.





	1. Chapter 1

       Ah, the dynasty of her smile. 

         The gentleness in her rhythm of speech.

    Fettered by massive lockets to the dark corner where no sun, no moon, no stars would ever glitter, sought the transcendental freedom of unattainable dreams. And together did they tangle themselves further in the remnant threads of plans and traps. "Are you paying attention?" She pleaded. Keep going punctuated with a please, he knows she says otherwise simply to tease; experience has taught him to learn the besotting language of her attitude ( his only wish being that she allows him to know her more intimately ), "Babe." The words she speaks adding further ambiguity to her already fickle personality he cannot help but find endearing ( at times intoxicating ), the indecisiveness with which she makes his decisions exacerbated by defense mechanisms serving to cloak his true wants and intentions. 

    "Uhh huh ~" Rakan responded. He sees her desire plainly with a perception beyond mere sight and hearing though he could stare at her for hours, days, stunned by her indescribable—and incomparable—beauty, tasting the desperation that drips from gestures of passion, thighs undulating with every sex-starved step and the gentleness and fall of ill-contained breasts begging for his compliments and the reassurance that she is the one he covets despite knowing there will never be anyone else. So that leads to the opposition, one’s self, graced by alabaster countenance. Tufts of roseate are furrowed and buckled in accordance to the exhaustion that tries to set in but is torn asunder by the likeness of his will and drive.

 "I don't think you are. —This is important." Xayah requested.

    It's a dare, life threatening: go against her wishes, pouty lips pursed and provocative. His smirk returns in full fervor, tapping an index finger against the curve of a cheek before ensnaring her lower lip ‘tween perfectly-aligned teeth. A lack of words is not the problem here but the overabundance of them, his tongue laden with praise and sweet nothings, castigating closure at a bypass. It is an aid of sorts that is undoubtedly needed. The vast steppe that they had sifted back to on the wings of time’s travel welcomed them oh, so willfully.

 "I love you." He preached with illustrative demise, as surprised caught the scarlet bird. 

    "What's gotten into you." Xayah sighed with notary falling from delicate dry lips ; abysmal to the missing texture of Rakan's own. He must refrain from saying anything ‘over affectionate’ ( and even that is subjective ) lest he find himself on the receiving end of an extreme act of violence; for years his worship has been stifled by the necessity of silence, her very existence so overwhelming a presence it tempts him at every given second to serenade her. 

 "I love you." It was as if that was the limit to his vocabulary. 

    A murmured assertion, close to a hushed intonation whilst the male draws himself closer–hand descended to encompass the finger that were hovered paper plans. He leans forward, slowly overcome by the feeling that ruptured across the expanse of abandoned emotions. A bleak simper is made upon the outlines of benign pigment, fore-head eventually touching the woman’s forehead with his own. The male pushes, squeezing the digits encased in a calloused palm. Assurance and optimism is his specialty and he wonders if the declaration will irritate her like it usually did. Though he wouldn’t become irked if such a thing were to happen–to see her roll those vibrant hues at his childish behavior would be a gift that he did not deserve. The beam tracing across a sun-bathed visage is stretched, lips quirked skyward in an attempt to lift her mood. The remaining free hand is lifted, slender digits flexed open to glide along the surface of a porcelain cheek, before cupping it. 

             She was his. 

            Only his. 

 "...You're such a handful." Xayah responded.

    A lull facade overlaps over their frames, body heat suddenly aware to his mind, lips mere inches part and the man has seemingly forgotten when he moved his head so close. Oculi akin to an abyss are quaking in sheer intoxication, coasted along the plump-grooves that are far too close to his own. He is certain that his lovers breath is swaying against his mouth, failing to deter the spiraling sensations that strike a heart that is now drumming out of control. Lips part for but a spell, shaky respite pushed outward for a split second, before slender grooves are closed–Her eyelids grew heavy, and she found her vision darkening as rosy tiers hesitantly pressed against his — forming a sweet, gentle liplock. It was comforting and warm and wonderful and —

    Oh, how delightful it felt, to have his lips brush against hers in such a delectable manner. A soft coo of satisfaction slipped past parted tiers as long lashes brushed along his cheeks. A murmur from clasped tiers, a subtle shift across ambrosial flares enticing the din that overflows with passion. The color stained against cheeks has brightened beyond normal measure and the man is positive that his mien is set ablaze from the heat. Realization fails to kick in, before the lover push moments beforehand gradually settles the woman to the grass– his form just barely hovering over her own, lips still locked in a heated battle for unshackled sensations. 

    His dexterous, wild fingers skimmed against the creamy pallor of the female’s slender thigh. Yet he couldn’t help himself — she was a dangerous indulgence to him, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was aware of this. But her thoughtless scheme of capturing him in her web of filth, relieve herself and leave was about to crumble around her with the flames of an unprecedented, maddening intoxication which had, for many months, cascaded into irreparable possession.


	2. you're mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i love you.

    The time for romantic subtleties and gentle nuances had long since elapsed, however. Her purpose was secured; his own was common between them since the beginning. It was only a matter of time before she was at his mercy. The question, however, was whether or not he was sparing of that merciful element, or retracted it from the situation altogether.

                                                                          Especially when index and ring fingers spread her apart for him.

    Especially when the crooked middle digit impaled her lithe young body, and filled her with it until an emaciated knuckle of ghostly, ashen sinew kissed against a womanhood glistening with arousal. Especially when he used this as leverage over her entire body, lifting her lower half with malevolent, selfish intent. A gruelling, sinister rhythm began inside her body, exploring every naked inch of his lover. In stark contrast to her grating personality, the charmer contours were supple, polished and smooth. Had it not been for who she was, one might almost have come close to labelling her as dainty. But she wasn’t. She was beauty that could be — and relished being — filled, and used, and manipulated at her wish; bled dry of every divine wave of lust. If she was such a base, depraved vixen of sin then it was only natural that her punishment was to be drowned by it until no longer could she breathe without moaning her man's sordid name.

                                                                          He wasn’t weakened by her advances. He was empowered.

                                                                          Empowered by the chance to claim her again.

                                                                          And again.

                                                                          And again, until every bone in her body became liquid to his touch.

    Malformed, frigid fingers encompassed the limber female’s embodiment when she so ignorantly straddled against him. The hollow between forefinger and thumb pressured her heat, squeezing out her resistance — before a lithe, grasp tightened; a valve, set to detonate so fiercely, so imminently, upon the tightening coil of their chemical desires. She is shy, cheeks abloom with blush alike the swirled, billowy heads of Royal Highness tea roses faerie pink in colour, embarrassed by the softness of her exposure and the thought of him pursuing her while she still carries herself with the demeanor of a swooning schoolgirl, unable to defend herself against his charms with the cruelty of her infamous defense mechanisms. She wasn't like this before him. " ** _As rough_** as ever,huh.." She hums in chords mellifluous and mellow, a small smile curling the ends of full lips highly-sought and equally-as-coveted, quirking a brow as she tilts her head to the left and parts with what she assumes to be common sense **:**  "... _Faster_ , Rakan." When they are apart ( God perish the thought— ) an inexplicable ache plagues her cured only by his proximity and soothed further by his touch; she is woefully, devastatingly in love with him, so much so that seeing him has become as necessary as drawing air into her lungs, she cannot live without him.

    Her hair of rimless floods, the unfettered curves and bends of violets star-struck in eternal brilliance, he hadn’t anticipated her becoming like this. Perhaps he had become too confident, too vain, in his ability to wilt her down. Of course, it would never be achieved with such ease. Something akin to a growl tore from his lips, in response towards the sudden proximity of porcelain tips dancing up heated-skin underneath his attire. Tremors wrecked the entire spire of his back, hands roaming about the woman’s frame involuntarily without any sense of direction. Hastily, he slid the apparel that coveted her wallflower in moments, muscular digits coming to clasp at the hem of the cloth that covered her own body, tugging away at the object, heated tiers pressing into the neckline of his beloved. Despite the persona that brimmed with copious amounts of desire, the man couldn’t help but revel in the sight that was this woman. True enough, a plethora of urges were invoking thoughts and sensations that were considering scandalous or plain dirty. But as sights took in the exposed skin of the vastayan that lied before him, witnessing the timid glossing that layered across her visage. She was beyond beautiful. Beyond that of beauty itself, somehow managing to sever the limitations that pertained to a simple compliment or a reference to one’s facial features. This individual’s body wasn’t something he simply hungered for, it was an oddity that he adored–that he loved. And to allow his own flesh to meld with that of such delicate portions?

    None the less, the man shifts a hand that tremors in a plethora of lustful collisions, tips coming to the hem of stained shorts attached to delicate skin. A hasty pull is preformed, cupping the under-garment below the shorts as he shoves the pair down to the rebel's ankles. Not a glance is given–not a warning bestowed, before the devouring king of hearts grinds bridgework together, calloused extremities gripped the other’s hip line. And a thrust is executed, penetrating the seam centered in her hips, saturated flesh coveting the shaft that is shoved into her body.That realization never truly manifest itself within the surprised look of pupil-dilated, elusive bewilderment. Clawed hands, which were glossed by a faint, clear orgasmic film grappled mindlessly, like the scuffing talons of a crow’s murder. Another sharp, thoughtless inhale accompanied her action of skewering herself on his length; a throbbed through him, and a perverse, licentious marriage of two naked bodies intertwined in wicked conflict, finally. 

                                                                          But it wasn’t enough.

                                                                          She was too good not to utterly spoil.

                                                                          She felt too pleasurable; too sinful. Too perfect.

    He wanted more. A grated hiss of resentful satisfaction lurched through the husked breath. More. If she was so intent on thinking that she could conduct this with her perfection, then he’d strip that thought from her. He’d tear it down with his bare hand, which, shimmered with the essence of her entrance, latched around the promiscuous shift. More. The span between thumb and forefinger hooked against her left ankle, spreading her outward, her wanton moans with wordless, immoral aggression but yet -- "I love you." Is hushed from the charmer. Quickened breaths correlated with quickened thrusts; both from her, and from him, castigating and punishing each other. Their bodies slammed and fought in a rhythmic war against their sordid, corrupted opposites enticed solely by the desire to see the other overcome, beaten, and breathless. Their technique was filled with passion and wet so soon after her first peak, but simultaneously forceful and intense. There soon became a point where each individual thrust became impossible to discern; blended into a continuous, heated act that tore out their breath. In his terrifying embroilment of their act, Rakan became lost from his inhibitions and became a truly disembodied creature — the woman unto whom he had pledged his companionship, dimming into a featureless, anonymous body that was his to claim. She was still noticeably tight around him. Resistant. She squeezed upon him with that rebellious penchant of hers, inciting the man to supply a harder thrust. Slowly, the rhythm of his member became lured to a lessened rate — the soft, slick sounds of her naked warmth parting for him decorating the atmosphere with a torrid, primitive climate of lust.  
  


                                                                          ".. _Y-You're mine, baby._ " Rakan preached.

                                                                           "Only... e-.. ever _ **yours**_ , Rakan!" Xayah delusively consented.

                                                                          Faster. Deeper.

                                                                          Mine.

    He wasn’t just holding her. This wasn’t an embrace. This was a spider’s web. He was holding her down. Fettering her, with muscular hands suppressing her. And for what reason? He, too, was close. All of this, all of this mindless, carnal fixation on one another, was accumulating in a horrendous gesture of such light, remorseless obsession. But even when he was approaching his release, even as he knew the signs where her body was milking this out of him with its sadistic, silken walls, he wasn’t withdrawing from her. And it was on purpose. She could hit her climax again and again, but nothing — nothing — could prevent her fate. It was lurid; sick, how the vulnerable, moist sounds of her womanhood caving in surrender to him could have orchestrated something so unfathomable. There is a method to his love, of sorts; a reason behind which Rakan has elected to finish its urges like this. It is not because it’s pleasurable – it’s entirely possible for him to empty himself inside her womb, or to flood her figure with its abundant load, or even to bifurcate her stomach, to reach out a garland of her innards and to perforate through her intestines with its raging lust – or that it’s a novel, stupefying new way of expressing their sexual innovations. and it avails, too — the wretched rebel's unheeded moans, as she’s skewered upon the male, reverberate throughout the miserly, gutless corridors of the silvern in a haunting chorus of defeat. He quakes her body beneath him with each mighty, frenzied thrust, and ripples the stinging, noxious applause of warm, wet flesh upon wandering ears. She is torn apart beneath him, consent inchoate and remote. The first few streams are the most sudden, the most ample in size. They are thick, ejaculated in rich, plentiful warmth inside the ruins of her muscles. He continues to lurch his hips upward, spreading and seeping the sloppy, sticky stains throughout her insides. 

    His titanic body of war-rhymes and beaten ballads, his palms and the force of their-wandering hands, dissolve in a matter of closeness, where now she can see only his face. His skin, old yet not wrinkled, tired by a quatrain of passion and strife not yet divulged and broodingly dark around the eyes, is an oddly smooth sensation 'pon her own. Cheek-to-cheek, he is bold, bolder than most, hand running moonward up the nude flesh– he wishes to etch so much verse upon it and condemns himself for touching her truly. They are warm with bloom, her eyes a window into the crests and troughs of wayward elements, lilith-black in the centre, where he looks beyond her in so many ways the certainty of her irresistible light. Time creeps in to rob him of what they have both yearned for months, and while he would certainly spring to spend days to merely watch her, where nothing imaginable could possibly disturb him in the utopia of her fair image, _he cannot deny her the truth_.

                                                                          ".. **_So_** , -- What was the plan again?"

 


End file.
